A Spider on the Stairs (32 page)

“That's very understandable,” said Gibbons, as Grandidge closed the door and led the way into the sitting room. Grandidge waved a hand at the sofa while he himself dropped into an armchair and looked at them expectantly.

“We understand,” said Gibbons, settling himself on the couch, “that you've gone into business for yourself in a small way.”

Grandidge's expression was quizzical. “I don't know what you mean,” he said, and he appeared sincere.

“Don't you?” asked Gibbons. “Well, perhaps I've misunderstood the situation.”

“
What
situation?” said Grandidge, exasperated.

“I'm sorry,” said Gibbons. “I'll try to be clear. I was talking about your little business in selling dietary supplements to ladies who wish to lose weight.”

Grandidge's expression changed at once: from tired and confused he became alarmed and wary.

“Oh,” he said, and Gibbons could almost see his mind racing as he tried to decide whether to deny it or not. In another moment he realized he had passed the point where a denial would hold water. It was then that Gibbons said, “Would you care to tell us about it?”

Grandidge snorted. “I might as well,” he said, “but you're the day after the fair, you know. It was my uncle's gig.”

Bethancourt's eyebrows shot up, but Gibbons was remembering Henry Collins telling him that Sanderson had had an extra source of income. Still, he had no desire to let Grandidge get away with none of the blame, so he said, “It's convenient that your uncle is no longer able to confirm that.”

“It's true all the same,” said Grandidge, shrugging. He took a sip from a half-empty beer bottle on the table at his elbow, and shook out a cigarette from the packet there. Both Bethancourt and Gibbons noticed that his fingers trembled as he brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it. “I don't even know where Uncle Brian came up with the idea,” said Grandidge. “But I think he'd been running the business for a little while before it occurred to him to involve me. At least, I know he'd been making a lot of trips to London and that he stopped after I started receiving the stuff at the bookshop.”

“Let's start at the beginning,” said Gibbons. “How and when did you come to know about this sideline of your uncle's?”

Grandidge took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, thinking briefly. “There was a family party about two years ago now. I apparently talked about my job at Mittlesdon's, because later on
Uncle Brian took me aside and asked me the details of how the books came in and all that sort of thing. It seemed an odd thing for him to be interested in, but I told him and didn't think much more about it.”

“No,” murmured Bethancourt, “why would you?”

“Exactly.” Grandidge puffed at his cigarette. “It was maybe a month later that Uncle Brian came back to me and asked if I would like to make a bit of extra money. I said sure, and that's when he told me about the whole thing, and how he had figured a way to ship his supplements through the book-supply chain. All I had to do was separate his packages out from the books when they arrived and set them aside.” He gave a wry half smile. “That didn't last long, of course. Uncle Brian wasn't one to do the work himself if he could get someone else to do it for him. Before long, I was packaging the stuff up and dealing with all the ladies who wanted it. The one rule was that I never used the mail—Uncle Brian didn't fancy the kind of charges that would come from misusing Her Majesty's Royal Mail.”

“Very wise of him,” said Gibbons dryly.

“But how did you get your shipments out of the shop?” asked Bethancourt. “Didn't they notice you carrying boxes out?”

“No; I was careful,” answered Grandidge. “And the boxes were small—it was easy to take them out to my car when I stepped out to smoke. Besides, there was no reason for anyone to suspect anything since I wasn't stealing from the shop.”

“True,” said Bethancourt thoughtfully.

Gibbons was eyeing Grandidge with disapproval. “You don't seem,” he said, “to have had any misgivings about engaging in a criminal activity.”

“Oh, come now,” said Grandidge, looking irritated. “I suppose technically it wasn't legal, but let's be honest here: it was more on the lines of exceeding the speed limit than it was dealing cocaine or something.”

Gibbons seemed to find this droll. “I'm curious,” he said. “Exactly where do you draw the line on banned substances? Hashish perhaps?”

“What banned substances?” demanded Grandidge, sitting up a bit. “There wasn't any of that kind of thing. I admit, Uncle Brian was cheating the Exchequer out of the import taxes, but none of the stuff was illegal, just hard to find over here.”

Gibbons just looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, “I almost believe you didn't know.”

Grandidge was looking from one to the other of them, alarmed.

“Know what?” he said. “Look, I swear—there's no illegal drugs involved.” He started to rise. “I'll show you—I've got a package in the bedroom right now.”

Gibbons let him go without a word and then turned to Bethancourt and raised a brow.

Bethancourt shrugged and took off his glasses to polish the lenses. “I almost believe him, too,” he said.

Grandidge returned, carrying a cardboard box.

“Look,” he said, pulling out a package labeled
STEVIA
. “Artificial sweetener. And this,” he produced a plastic bottle, “this is just some special kind of multivitamin.” He dropped the bottle on the chair and pulled out a small vial. “And this is some injection,” he said. He squinted at the bottle. “ ‘Somatropin,' ” he read. “I don't know exactly what that is, but I know what it's not: heroin or cocaine or even hash.”

“I know what it is,” said Bethancourt. “It's mentioned in Dana Dugan's book. It's synthetic human growth hormone.”

“Which,” said Gibbons, “is quite illegal.”

Grandidge was gaping at them, so Gibbons added, “Did you really think your uncle would worry that much about import taxes? He was a successful businessman after all.”

“Well, Uncle Brian was known as a warm man,” said Grandidge weakly. He set down the box and dropped into the chair, half
rising again to pull the bottle of vitamins out from under him before collapsing again. “And this was his way of making an extra bit on the side—I figured he looked on it more in the way of a windfall than a business.”

He seemed quite dumbfounded at this revelation of the character of his uncle's sideline. He picked up his bottle of beer and finished it in three gulps.

“So how did you deliver the goods to the customers?” asked Gibbons. “They couldn't have all come to the bookshop.”

“God, no,” said Grandidge. “That
would
have aroused suspicions. No, I'd drop the packets round their places if they lived in York, or else I'd arrange for them to come here or to meet them somewhere, depending.”

“And these ladies paid you cash?” asked Gibbons.

“Mostly,” answered Grandidge. He ran his hands through his hair, shoving it out of his eyes. “Sometimes they'd give me a check—I never minded. Hell, I've put myself right in it, haven't I? I should have kept quiet and got a solicitor.”

“It might not turn out so badly,” Gibbons told him. “Provided your claim that you didn't know the substances were contraband holds up, the prosecutor will probably go easy on you if you help them find the people responsible.”

“But I don't know who's responsible,” protested Grandidge. “I tell you, it was my uncle's show, not mine. All I know is there's a fellow named Nate who works at TBS and packages the stuff up in the boxes he ships up to us.”

“What's TBS?” asked Gibbons.

“The Book Service—they're major distributors,” said Grandidge. “But that's all I know—I don't know where Nate gets it from—I don't even know Nate's last name. I've got his number, though. . . .”

Grandidge pulled his mobile from a pocket and began searching through his contacts.

Gibbons took down the number when he found it. “This isn't
really my bailiwick,” he told Grandidge. “But I'll mention how helpful you've been when I hand it over.”

Bethancourt had been silent for some time, only half listening to the details of the arrangement. Now he said suddenly, “Jody Farraday knew about it, didn't she?”

Grandidge looked at him, startled. “Yes, she found out,” he said. “But she didn't make any trouble over it—in fact, she'd had it figured out for a while before I realized she knew.”

“Who else knew?” asked Gibbons.

“Nobody,” answered Grandidge. “Not unless Jody told someone, and she wasn't a talker. I really don't think she did.”

“What about your aunt or your cousins?” suggested Gibbons. “Or someone else in your family.”

Grandidge shook his head vigorously. “I never told anyone,” he said. “Not even my sister. I mean, why should I? I was making a pretty penny out of the deal, and Uncle Brian had been quite clear that he'd shut the whole thing down if so much as a whisper got out. So I kept it to myself. I suppose he might have told Aunt Amy, though I wouldn't have thought so. I mean, I don't think he usually discussed his business affairs with her.”

“And you're certain,” said Gibbons, “that he never approached anyone else at the bookshop about it? Not Mittlesdon or perhaps Rhys-Jones?”

“God, no.” Grandidge looked scornful. “They'd never have gone along—especially not Mr. Mittlesdon.”

“But Jody knew,” said Bethancourt, returning to his point. “Was your uncle aware of that?”

Gibbons looked startled for a moment, then turned to look at his friend, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“He found out,” admitted Grandidge. “We had quite a row about it, actually. I'd never seen Uncle Brian so upset—he wouldn't take my word for it that Jody would never tell. But he didn't find out until Jody was on the verge of leaving York anyway, and he calmed down about it after that.”

“I see,” said Gibbons neutrally. “Well, Mr. Grandidge, you've been very helpful. There will have to be an investigation into this matter, but I'll do what I can for you. And I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate that box.”

Grandidge seemed almost eager to give it to him, as if by thus disposing of the evidence he could make the entire problem go away.

They took their leave, but as soon as Grandidge's door closed behind them, Gibbons turned to Bethancourt and said, “Sanderson? You really think so?”

“It fits,” said Bethancourt in a low tone, mindful that Grandidge might overhear them. “Remember what kind of man he was, Jack: somebody who thought quite a lot of himself, and wanted everybody else to share that opinion. Any threat to his standing in the community would probably have made him see red.”

Gibbons nodded; then gestured toward the stairs, wanting to remove this conversation further from Grandidge's front door.

“But was it really a threat to his standing?” he asked as they made their way down to the vestibule. “It is, after all, a very white-collar sort of crime.”

“Making money under the table implies that your aboveboard earnings are lacking,” said Bethancourt. “Since money was how Sanderson reached his standing, I think this news would have put a pretty good dent in it. Not to mention that he was dealing ladies' dietary supplements—he'd have been a laughingstock.”

“Yes, I see your point.” Gibbons paused at the bottom of the stairs, resting the box he carried against the banister. “Still, from everything we know of her, Jody would have kept his secret—he was in no danger at all from her.”

“He may not have realized that, though,” said Bethancourt. “It's one thing when your nephew who's trying to avoid your wrath and keep his extra income swears Jody is reliable—it's another to actually trust that information. Sanderson likely saw
Jody as one of those odd bookshop people: interesting, no doubt, but not reliable.”

“But how did he come to know she was back in town when even her old friends hadn't heard yet?”

“That I don't know,” admitted Bethancourt. “She certainly wouldn't have contacted him. Coincidence, I guess?”

“It could be,” said Gibbons. “It bears thinking about, anyway.” He peered out the window. “It's coming down in buckets,” he announced.

“No, really, is it?” said Bethancourt sarcastically.

But Gibbons was still thoughtful. “Phillip,” he said, with a new note in his voice, “if you're right, and Sanderson did murder Jody, then
who killed Sanderson?
”

They looked at each other in the dim light of the vestibule sconce, realization dawning.

“Ashdon,” breathed Bethancourt.

“And it follows then, doesn't it,” said Gibbons excitedly, “that his motive was revenge for Jody's death? Ashdon may not have known Sanderson at all—he was part of Jody's world, not Sanderson's.”

“God, you're right,” said Bethancourt. He sank down to sit perched on the stairs. “We've been looking in the wrong place for him. Hell, Jack, you've probably spoken with him—you interviewed all of Jody's friends you could find.”

Gibbons's mind was already racing through those interviews, as well as those who had been mentioned but whom he had not been able to find.

“The age is right, according to Brumby's profile,” he said. “I'll have to look through my notes and see which of them could have been absent from York at the time of the murders. Damn, it could even be one of the bookstore crowd after all.”

“It ought to be fairly easy to narrow it down,” said Bethancourt. “What else did Brumby say?”

“About Ashdon? There's a whole file's worth of stuff,” said Gibbons.
He thought for a moment. “Very smart,” he said. “A thorough and deliberate planner, but someone who can also react quickly when the unexpected arises. Obviously, someone with either . . .”